


Rendezvous

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, No Dialogue, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, no names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A minute with your Vulcan boyfriend in a closet on the Enterprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rendezvous

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: [Differences](http://archiveofourown.org/works/839996) made me want more. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

You’re taking him by the hand because you want to, not because you need to. He’s a good boyfriend, and he’ll come either way. The hallway has a door at the back that opens into a storage unit no one ever uses, and it’s closer to the bridge than your quarters. 

And you have a need in you from staring at the back of him all day—his broad shoulders, the curve of his spine, his perfect posture with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. His smooth voice giving the captain advice—because he’s the first officer, so _powerful_ —and there’s never any expression when he inclines his head back to look at you, but you see the desire in his dark eyes. 

You mess up his smooth hair with your fingers as you back him into the storage unit, the white doors sliding shut behind you. The room’s dark, barely lit by blinking cargo lights—all green; everything’s in order. 

Your fingertips trace the shell of his ears, running over the points and tugging them slightly. He doesn’t understand why, but it makes you smile. His tongue slips into your mouth, and he shows you all his strength and his fervor in the subtleties. His hips press into yours. His strong hands are at your sides, fingers tenderly stroking your waist through your dress. He tilts his head just right, lips open just enough, mouth a little moist and so warm, tongue polite and ravenous all at once. He tastes like Plomeek tea. You hate to pull away from him, but he’s backing you into the wall and your fervent hips need _more_ than this can offer. 

His face slips just centimeters from yours. His eyes are open halfway, watching you through those black lashes. Expressionless, he searches your face. You give him the smallest of smirks and raise your eyebrows. Cheeks flushed and lashes half down. The _please_ look. You’ve given it to him. You know he’ll give it to you. 

Just barely, he nods. He leans in slowly to kiss your cheek, finger under your chin. Then he’s sliding down the wall, and you’re leaning your head back against it, silently ecstatic with your luck. You don’t care what anyone says; Vulcans make wonderful boyfriends.

They’re kind, and they’re sweet, in their own special way. He kneels before you, blue shirt stretched across his shoulders, Starfleet pin shining in the frail light. His fingers slide along the hem of your red skirt, rolling it slowly up, bit by bit. You touch his hair while he works. It’s always even better-brushed than yours: something that used to annoy you. Now it’s all fun; it makes the contrast that much greater when you mat it with sweat and tugging. 

You didn’t wear stockings today, because you didn’t have time. He had you against the shower wall, and you barely made your shift. He gets your dress around your waist and eyes your black panties: his favourite.

You know, and you pet him. His lips twitch in the faintest of smirks. He likes you in anything, he always says, but the way they tie into little bows at the side and dip into sheer lace at the front... he finds them _fascinating._

He peels them down with the greatest of care, exposing you to the warm air of the supply closet and the ghost of his breath. You can’t see much beneath your breasts and the fold of your skirt, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the _feeling_ you’re looking for—the way his mouth opens wide, and his tongue flattens out at the bottom of your slit. He licks up to the top, slow and steady. Your fingers tighten in his hair, breath unsteady. 

He knows just what he’s doing. He always listens to every hum of your body, the slight intake of breath here and the faint gasp there. He stores it all away in his Vulcan memory banks to scramble out again, hot mouth working skillfully down your lips, then up again to tongue the nub at the top. He sucks the tip of your clit into his mouth and tongues it gently, rolling it around. You moan, and he presses in harder. You’re a good enough girlfriend not to thrust your hips up into him, but you can’t help the way your body naturally trembles. There’s an involuntary spasm every time he does that _thing_ with his tongue that— _oh yes,_ that _thing_ , right _there_...

He gets his whole mouth on you and he sucks, blowing a second later. He dives his tongue in and out of you, parting your walls like it was meant to be there. His hands climb to your thighs, because you’re so unsteady and you’re going to knock him off with all your shaking. He squeezes gently: Vulcan strength to hold them still. 

He’s fucking you then, with his warm, wet tongue, longer than any human’s. More powerful and better. It’s thrusting in and pulling out, swirling around, while his nose digs into your clit and he nuzzles into you, lashes lowered and eyes thick with concentration. You know that the only thought in his head is of pleasing you. And you’d like it if he were just generally hungry for your body, which you’re sure he must be somewhere deep down, but you wouldn’t have him act any other way than exactly the way he is. 

He’s making your knees weak. Pulse racing so fast. Heartbeat erratic, because you never know which way his tongue will swipe. Your fingers tense in his hair, your other hand on his shoulder, your head falling forward, hair slipping over your neck. It’s so good. He’s so good. So _good_...

He sucks particularly hard and he looks up at you. And how are you supposed to resist that? You crumble and you burst, shooting your hand up to cover your mouth. To muffle the scream of pleasure. Your vision goes temporarily white, skin prickling, head numb. He keeps licking you as though to dry you off, but you’re wet beyond salvation. 

You drift back down so slowly, regaining the ability to think and feel. He pulls out and kisses your belly, mouth probably full of your juices. He’s a good man. 

When he’s back on his feet, you’re still too heady to do anything. You’re still leaning against the wall for support. He reaches down and dips two fingers into you, and you make an undignified sort of noise and grab at his shirt. Then he’s pulling out and wiping his hand off on his pant leg, probably trying to make you less sticky to walk around as. 

It’s a valiant effort but silly. You shake yourself back to reality and pull up your panties, shuffling down your dress. Smoothing it all out. You smell like sex. His pants are slightly tented, but there isn’t that much time left, and he looks calm. He sees you looking and raises one eyebrow. You nod breathlessly—your way of agreeing to later. 

He drapes his arm around you as if to lead you back out to the world.

You lean up for a kiss instead.


End file.
